


Shadow Boxing

by hibernate



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Chocolate Box Exchange, F/M, Sexual Tension, Trespasser DLC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-22 13:29:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9609428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hibernate/pseuds/hibernate
Summary: Vivienne and Iron Bull share a toast after the Exalted Council.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vass/gifts).



The portrait of Empress Merise did not use to have a moustache.

Reflected on the polished surfaces along the Winter Palace's many hallways, the rising moon has turned the walls into shimmering mirrors; their silver and white matches Vivienne's ivory Grand Enchanter robes so perfectly it would be worthy of poetry.

Unfortunately, the only one around to witness it is an elf child, whose notions of appropriate color combinations range from eyesore to outright offensive. There is something exceptionally cheeky about the grin on her face, despite the lateness of the hour and the significance of their task. One might think even Sera would take more care considering the contents of the urn tucked under her arm, carelessly squeezed against her ribs. After all these years, the little brat still cannot seem to walk like an adult, hop-skipping in and out of the shadows, and when the light from the moon illuminates the hallway, her hands look suspiciously _smudged_. 

The bust of Emperor Cyril seems to have been given a stylishly drawn pair of spectacles as well as the outline of what one can only assume is supposed to be a rather indiscreet part of anatomy on his chest, pointing up towards his chin like a particularly rude arrow. Precisely when the culprit had the time to add these creative accessories is anyone's guess, but that's always been one of her talents. Well — the Empress is not attending the Exalted Council. It'll be a slight on no one who matters.

Further down the hallway, outside the door to Vivienne's rooms, an unfamiliar shadow lingers. A shadow that upon further inspection appears to have horns. 

From somewhere in the shadows behind her, Sera whistles sharply and shouts, "Draaagoooon!"

"I'm not falling for that again," the Iron Bull says, stepping out of the shadows with his arms crossed. He leans his head to the side, breathing in. "You guys smell like smoke. Aw, did you make a fire without me? You know how I feel about fire."

"A _secret_ fire," Sera whispers, cupping one of her hands over her mouth. "'Cause I'm on a _secret_ mission. Got no time to invite no-one, just me and the Grunt Enhancer."

Vivienne sighs. Opening the door, she waves her hand, sending the smallest spark of fire to light the candles on the desk. "Telling people about it makes it rather less secret, dear."

"Whatever." Sera rolls her eyes, standing up on her toes, whispering loudly to Iron Bull, "Not even frigging paying me. Well, joke’s on her, I can lift a hundred coin purses but Madame Fancy-Tits—" Sera's glance briefly catches on Vivienne's neckline "—is gonna _owe_ me."

"Be careful, Sera, or you risk sounding positively Orlesian." Vivienne makes sure Sera looks appropriately disgusted before she moves on, crossing the room in a stride. As always, there's a quill and ink on the desk, and she scribbles a few quick words on a note:

_Residual magic? Take all precautions. - V_

Sera and Iron Bull both follow inside her rooms, Sera sniffing the air suspiciously. "You roll around in flowers?"

"Heh, the Boss set me up on a date with a bathtub." Vivienne turns, just in time to catch a vaguely sheepish look on his face. "Said she could smell her arm on me."

It's nonsense — the arm had not smelled of anything at all. Whatever Solas did to it to contain the magic within had changed the very flesh of it. But the Inquisitor is allowed her little whims. Her friendship with Iron Bull may no longer be of an _intimate_ kind, but their closeness remains. 

"Sera," Vivienne says, carefully folding the note and holding it out for her. "There is a question of time, my dear."

Snatching the note from Vivienne's hand, Sera grimaces. The idea of doing anything for Vivienne must pain her greatly. "Was gonna go see Widdle _anyway_ ," she mutters.

She does not stay long enough for Vivienne to reply, scurrying along on quick feet, and Vivienne goes to her wash basin, cleaning her hands and splashing water on her face and neck. She will send her robes to be cleaned and rid of smoke in the morning.

Iron Bull still lingers in her peripheral vision. How such a large man can make himself so unobtrusive and silent is rather impressive. A strange idea, to make oneself less than what one is.

"Nice digs," he says when she turns back to him, craning his neck to look at the elaborate painting on the ceiling.

The monstrosity above is the sort of tasteless gaudiness that ought not be encouraged, but besides that, he is not wrong. "This is the Winter Palace, and I'm the Grand Enchanter. Anything less would be an insult." Stretching, Vivienne rubs the back of her neck, sighing. "Does she need me?"

"Nah, she's good. Said she was gonna tuck herself in good and sleep 'til the Empress kicked her out of Halamshiral."

Vivienne relaxes by fractions. She had not expected differently, but one never knows with such unpredictable magic. The Inquisitor was angry when she left her, but otherwise in a good condition. Even before she realized her arm could not be saved, that what Solas started could not be stopped by any means known to them, she was furious. Locking the door, Vivienne listened to her ranting until she went quiet and there was nothing left to do but wait, over the course of several long, drawn-out hours. There was no wound to heal, no blood, no flesh to soothe. At least he managed to make that part efficient.

Sooner or later, the Inquisitor's fury will ebb, and less straightforward things will take its place. Grief is long and dull, tiresome in its stubborn tendency to cling.

When the time is right, Vivienne will commission a new staff for her, one she can wield with one hand. A work of art, made by the best. 

"I assume," Vivienne says, "she made a spectacle before the Exalted Council."

"You'd've enjoyed it." He grins. "She threw a book on the floor and told everyone to fuck off. Politely, of course."

"Yes, she does have a flare for dramatic nonsense."

"She sent me to give you this," Iron Bull says, reaching into the pouch on his hip and brandishing an old-looking wine bottle with a red bow tied around it. "Said it was a gift for you. Liquid love."

It's unmistakably from Trevelyan’s private collection of expensive spirits, stolen and appropriated through various means. Something she found lying around in the dirt, no doubt, but nevertheless a valuable, precious gift. She'd brought it all this way, the silly girl.

"There are glasses on the table," she says, and Iron Bull heeds the request, pouring out a glass for them both.

The Inquisitor would not have sent it with Iron Bull had it not been meant to be enjoyed. After a day such as this, sleep would hardly come easy — better then to stay awake and relish what's offered.

Glasses clinking in a toast, Vivienne smiles. "To the end of the Inquisition."

"Been one hell of a ride," Iron Bull says, emptying his glass in one swallow, then, making a displeased face, "This is some pretty vile stuff."

"It's priceless. Suited for those with refined taste."

"Don't tell her I said this, but she found it in a ditch."

"I am well aware of the Inquisitor's eccentricities. It's still priceless."

Vivienne sips her wine — a gift worthy of kings and queens, and, quite frankly, repugnant. The taste is hardly the point of it, though. When she tells the story, it will have been the sweetest of wines.

"Iron Bull," she says, taking another sip and studying the way he stands, the casual, relaxed stance he has perfected. "How are you feeling?"

"Fit as a fiddle, ma'am."

He is a good liar, of course. He would not have been Ben-Hassrath if he couldn’t fool the very best, but this time, he is not truly trying.

"It unnerves you," she guesses. "The arm."

Clearly unable to stomach any more of the Inquisitor's gift, he puts his glass back down on the table and shrugs. "It was killing her. It's good that it came off." There is the briefest of pause, before he adds, "What'd you do with it?"

There's no particular inflection to his question, but that means nothing. He needs to know, she can practically feel it in the air around him. 

"In the end," she replies, making her voice calming and reassuring, as if speaking to a skittish young mage, "it was just an arm. You are quite safe."

He says nothing. His smirk is still firmly in place, but there is still something there — a hesitation, perhaps. An old fear, escaping through new cracks.

"I seem to have the most stubborn crick in my neck," Vivienne says, turning with a gesture towards her shoulder. "Would you mind?"

The grin on his face is insufferable. "Lucky for you, I'm really good at this. I've been told my hands are _magic_."

His hands on her shoulders are not at all unpleasant, but there's no reason to inform him of that. People are so prone to letting such things go to their heads. 

"Did the Inquisitor tell you that?" she asks. "I assume you are aware that she lies through her teeth."

Iron Bull chuckles deeply. "Yeah, but she's not as good at it as she thinks."

She opens herself up to the Fade, the warm rush of it making her skin tingle. On her shoulders, his hands tense, barely perceptibly. There are a lot of tricks hidden up his sleeve. What a formidable enemy he would be, if circumstances were only fractionally different. Vivienne does not know if she would see it coming.

"I burned it, of course," she says. "What was left of it. I could not sense any magic in the flesh, but I would not leave such things to chance. Sera is taking the ashes to Dagna for further study."

Vivienne turns back to face him; he crosses his arms before his wide chest, the very picture of strength and confidence. Reaching up, she puts her hand on his chin, studying his face again.

"The Qunari woman. The Viddasala. She called for you."

"Sure, she recognized who I used to be," he says with a shrug. "But that was a long time ago."

He ought to know her better than that, but some things fester in the deep, where they are hard to reach. There is a sort of forlorn look on his face, even under that smirk. If what he says is true, she is not so sure he would be here.

Giving him a pat on the cheek, she takes a step back. "Perhaps if you can disentangle Divine Victoria from her duties, she would be willing to spar with you. I do believe she misses hitting things on a daily basis. For my part, I’m afraid I’ve had quite enough of violence for today."

"Maybe tomorrow."

"Would you like for me to send you on some menial task as I used to do?"

"Hey, you _like_ ordering me around."

Vivienne would not deny such an obvious truth. Only the weak-minded would balk at holding so much power, so much raw strength, in the palm of their hand. This trivial game of theirs has always been an amusing distraction.

"This is not my furniture to move," she replies, "and I'm afraid there's nothing I need fetched or fixed."

"Y'know," Iron Bull says, slowly, dragging it out, "I used to think what you needed was to let go of all that control you wrap yourself up in."

The mischievous gleam in his eye is unmistakable. There is a line, a well-defined border that he's never crossed. If ever there was a talent he mastered better than anyone it's toeing that line, always giving the impression of pushing it when knowing intrinsically, intimately, how far to go. 

"Sometimes," he continues, grinning and pausing for effect, "I'd think about that. How I'd be in charge for a bit so you wouldn't have to be."

"How simplistic," Vivienne says, sipping from her glass. "Do you suppose I'd have you call me ' _boss_ ' during the day, and then let you tie me up in ropes at night? Evelyn—" she stresses the use of her first name, making her point loud and clear "—is my friend. I am aware of what sort of things the two of you used to amuse yourself with."

"It wasn't just at night. And not just ropes either."

"I'm sure there was no lack of creativity."

"Anyway," he says, untroubled by her retorts. "After awhile I realized that's not how it works for you. Being all strong and shit, even if it's an act, that's what builds you up."

"You presume entirely too much," she notes, a little more sharply.

"Used to be my job, ma'am. Force of habit. I'll stop if you want me to."

Vivienne quirks an eyebrow, letting him stew in silence for a moment, until he looks appropriately chastised.

"Are you done with your little analysis, then? You are not the only one who can read people, darling, but some of us consider it rather tasteless to say such things out loud."

"I'm all ears."

There is an upholstered chair next to the balcony door. Vivienne crosses the room to reach it, taking her time to seat herself comfortably, crossing her legs, leaning back against the soft pillows.

"Very well," she says. "You have tells, my dear. You wanted to do what the Viddasala told you."

"Her orders weren't for me. I've been Tal Vashoth for years now."

"Yes, but it doesn't stop you from craving it, does it? Something — _someone_ — to turn chaos into order." 

Pausing, a familiar ache blossoming in her chest, she raises her glass to her lips to distract herself. It's not the first time she's considered it, weighed the stakes and the potential rewards and found the risks too great. Time is far too precious to be wasted on indulging something as simple and easily disregarded as loneliness.

"It's not an unreasonable thing to wish for," she adds, looking out the window at the black sky, speckled with stars and a moon that's only just started to wane.

Moonlight seems to evoke in her a morose sort of state, in recent times. Sometimes she might even indulge it. After all these years, it still sometimes seems as if she saw Bastien only yesterday. The memory of his face has softened into an ageless picture; young and old at the same time. All the things that she's achieved, the mountains she's moved, and still, the fact that he was not there to see it is like a thorn that cannot be pulled out.

The Iron Bull stands, tall, wide and strapping, in front of her, waiting. 

"You are quite safe in my hands," she says, voice softening quite against her will. "You do trust me, do you not?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Vivienne sets the wine glass down on the floor next to her chair, uncrossing her legs, sitting up straighter.

"You do not need the Viddasala," she tells him, meeting his gaze with one that will never waver. "On your knees, my darling."

He unbuckles his knee brace as he goes down. His knuckles graze the outside of her knee, down her leggings, and Vivienne does not bother to hide her shiver. The intensity in his eyes is quite flattering — what a wondrous thing it is, the trust, the easy acquiescence, the earnest wish to do her bidding. 

Reaching behind herself, she retrieves a pillow from the chair, holding it out for him to take. "For your knee. I don't want you to be distracted."

He obediently puts it under his bad leg. She draws on the Fade again, and leans forward enough to reach his knee, sending a thread of ice to settle behind his kneecap. This time, he doesn't flinch.

Unbuckling her belt, she puts a hand to the lacing of her corset, tugging it looser, heart beating quicker under her fingers. Her other hand finds its way back to his cheek. "You did not have a bath for the Inquisitor's sake."

He shrugs, a lopsided grin tugging his lips to the side. "You like flowers. I hoped it'd get me laid."

Leaning forward to speak into his ear, she can smell his skin, and the subtle fragrance of embrium, dawn lotus, lily-of-the-valley. Vivienne breathes in, brushing his cheek with hers. 

"The night is still young."


End file.
